


quiet, for just a moment

by VesperNexus



Series: that boy is mine [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Sadness, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: “Is it very professional to be bickering about our dear Hamilton while he pretends not to listen downstairs?” Lafayette’s voice is almost dangerous in its artificial boredom. There’s a hardness to his words that blooms fresh shame in Washington’s breast.Or, Hamilton learns to recover.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: that boy is mine [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677175
Comments: 7
Kudos: 75





	quiet, for just a moment

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys please take heed of the tags  
> nothing graphic just implied/ referenced past non-con - upon recommendation i removed the old non-con tag

The silver swell of water ripples and heaves in gentle waves as Hamilton’s trembling toes break the surface. A little _oh_ rolls off his tongue, eyes fluttering for the briefest moment. Washington holds him firmly, gentle fingers curling along the protruding line of his ribs as he lowers himself unsteadily into the bathtub.

Innocuous comforts fill the silence, light and airy as the boy’s exhausted body folds in on itself. He ducks his head under the surface for the briefest moment, closes his eyes, lets the warm swirls flit the tension easily from his shoulders, the aches from his joints. Washington kneels beside him, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. His gaze sways to the strands hair floating like tendrils, blurred and flickering and lambent beneath the water. There’s an irrational simmer of anxiety in his belly, as if he blinks his boy will vanish, dissolve into the ripples, and Washington will be helpless to keep the rivets from slipping between his fingers.

Time ticks by slowly, until Washington slides his hands beneath the water and guides Hamilton’s head above the surface. From his lips tumbles a sudden, urgent breath. He tilts his head back, veins of his neck vivid with the strain. His eyes are still closed, hair tumbling around his face, clusters clinging to his throat. The thin sheen of water is a silver veneer on his skin.

“George,” it drips from his eyelashes. Washington watches it stream down a protruding clavicle to his thin chest. The drop joins the quickly pinking water. His hands are tight around the washcloth as he gently, _ever so gently_ , wipes the blood and filth still gummed to Hamilton’s skin. He is thorough, touch firm and delicate as he massages a kaleidoscope of bruises. Washington starts at the line of Hamilton’s throat, bared to him with a such trust it leaves him breathless. Yellow blossoms into blue into purple, an angry ring that leaves him aching inside.

His boy is quiet, hands fidgeting restlessly beneath the water. Washington pulls them up slowly, presses a slow kiss to each chafed knuckle. He twists until the boy’s palms face him and digs the dirt from beneath every nail.

The washcloth turns an ugly colour, a dirty blackened red, and he swaps it out for a fresh one. Washington takes his time, and his boy lets him, head resting against the wall of the tub. He doesn’t hesitate on the bruises over Hamilton’s hips, between his thighs. He moves methodically until Hamilton shifts, draws his legs to his chest until his knees break the water. His hands grip his shins, and he looks over Washington’s shoulder.

“Alexander,” a subtle breathy whisper, “my boy,” he punctures every word with a flutter of a kiss to each knee. He murmurs sweet nothings as he slithers behind Hamilton, soapy hands sliding carefully over his skull. His fingers undo every tangle thoroughly, slowly, the pads of his thumbs pushing against the boy’s forehead. “Shh, it’s okay my boy, I’ve got you.”

Tears slip from Hamilton’s closed eyes into his mouth. Washington works until the water is a hideous pastiche, until his boy’s hair is silky under his touch, until the shadow of foreign hands on his hips is scrubbed clean.

When Hamilton stands, he is shakier than when he first stepped into the water. Washington holds the naked body to his chest, soaking his clothes. The boy shakes himself into exhaustion, too weak to move as his general caresses him dry with a towel.

It’s only when Hamilton has slipped into the embrace of exhaustion that Washington lets himself weep.

*

When he wakes, his boy is still curled into him. A blessed rarity. Washington studies his face, watches until he must _touch._ He runs his fingers over Hamilton’s cheekbones, nails scrapping at the dark circles around his eyes, the lines worried around his gentle mouth even in sleep. The sun has broken lazily over the line of trees, sliced sharp by the heavy drapes. It is time to be the General again. Yet for all his duties and responsibilities and neglected tasks, Washington cannot make himself move.

“Just gonna keep staring at me, old man?”

He cannot help the sudden blossom of laughter bursting from his chest. He laughs until his eyes are moist, until he is winded, until his boy presses his lips to the corner of Washington’s mouth.

“For eternity, my dearest.”

The boy returns his smile in earnest. It’s little more than a shadow, but it’s enough.

“Will I be able to return to my duties today?”

Washington raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Alexander-”

“ _Please,_ sir-”

“You are to rest today. Sleep, eat. You are to-”

“ _Please_ , George.” The sudden quiver of desperation. Hamilton’s voice is high, the whisper of panic swirling under his words, as if he has not just waken from sleep. “It’s been days, and I’ve, I have to – I _have to_.”

Washington nods. He is too weak to deny his boy, too afraid of the tension that suddenly holds the thin body hostage, the nervous tremor of those fingers curled white into his shirt.

“Of course, Alex. Whatever you need.”

Hamilton smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

*

It lasts a week.

Laurens watches. He watches Hamilton resume his duties with due efficiency, watches his friend squint his eyes in the candlelight and steady the tremor in his hands when the quill threatens to slip from between his fingers. He watches Hamilton’s face thin, the bruises around his eyes darken even as those around his neck fade.

Laurens enters the aides’ quarters. His friend, predictably, is hunched over another missive or correspondence or something equally tedious. His shoulder blades stick out angrily from under his coat. Laurens takes a moment to steady himself as exhaustion weights his footsteps heavily. He makes sure his friend hears him approach before he enters his line of sight.

Hamilton glances up, smiles in a way that’s not quite there, like he’s smiling at someone whose name he can’t quite remember.

“My dear Ham,” his voice is thick with warmth, words so light he fears they sound artificial, “I thought you might be hungry. I don’t think I saw you leave that damned desk today.” The attempt at joviality is stunted at best. He slides the bowl of porridge by Hamilton’s elbow. “Eat, while it’s warm.”

Hamilton stares at the bowl for a long moment, as if he’s never seen anything so bizarre in his life. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the rusted spoon sinking through the thick porridge. The minute stretches on awkwardly until he looks up, as if he’s just remembered Laurens stood there.

“Uh, yes, thank you Laurens.” He clears his throat, looks away. There’s something nervous, skittish about the way he does it, like he can’t make himself look at Laurens any longer than necessary.

A stone settles heavy on his heart, weighing down through his ribcage. Laurens can almost hear the _crick-creak_ of bones on the brink of shattering.

He glances back on his way out. The bowl remains untouched and Hamilton works on, as if Laurens were never there.

*

“I was wondering when you would come.”

Washington lowers his quill, eyes refocusing on Laurens. He stands before him with legs apart, chin angled up, shoulders a hard straight line.

“Alexander is not okay.” There’s tightly coiled anger strapping those words together. Washington shifts, leans back into his chair. His joints creak with the movement, and he has never felt older in his life.

“He is getting better.”

“If you think he is getting better you are either blind or ignorant.”

Washington knows better than to threaten insubordination. He glances behind Laurens. The door is firmly shut.

“He needs time to heal.” He tries to be placating, but it only seems to stroke Laurens’ ire. His eyes brighten, lips curled downward.

“He hasn’t put his quill down since we found him, _General._ Damn if he’s slept or eaten.” Washington swallows the lump in his throat, _I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, tell me what to do -_

“I don’t-”

“No. _You don’t._ ”

His own frustration refuses to yield, “Is there a reason you are here, _Colonel_?”

Laurens steps forward, boots thumping heavily. “You need to let him go. You aren’t helping him.”

Washington stands. “Alexander can make his own decisions.”

“Oh _please,_ ” the sneer is ugly and unfitting on Laurens’ face, “like he has a _choice_.”

Washington’s voice turns hard, his words lowered impossibly. “What are you implying, Colonel?” Laurens holds his stare, unflinching. “I suggest you consider your response carefully.”

“Alexander has deluded himself into believing he loves you. Is _in love_ with you.” A bitterness splits the spaces between Laurens’ words, and Washington resists the basest urges to _snarl._ “He is blinded by his veneration of you. He sees you as more than a man.”

 _And you see me as less,_ he doesn’t say. “Alexander is tempered in his expectations.”

Indignation draws Laurens’ eyebrows together, “He looks at you like you pin the stars in the sky just for him! Since the first time you called him into your office, since the first time you put your hand on his shoulder! And you take advantage of his adoration of you!”

“I take advantage of _nothing_!”

“Tell me an admirable man would bed a boy of half his age!”

“I never said I was an _admirable man_ , Colonel.” A chill settles in the air, electrifying the tension. Washington feels the blanket of fury growing with every viperous taunt. “I care for Alexander more than you can possibly know. I may not be a venerable man, or a _good_ man, but there is nothing I would not do for him.”

Laurens already shakes his head, lips pursed. “You know he can never say no to you. You are his commander, his _mentor._ You take away his choice no less than his captor did.”

A burst of volatile fury coils hard around the base of Washington’s spine, blurs his vision to white as his palms smash hard into the desk, “ _You dare-”_

The door opens. A slither, just enough for a shadow to slip through, hands twisted behind him and face egregiously unimpressed.

“Is it very professional to be bickering about our dear Hamilton while he pretends not to listen downstairs?” Lafayette’s voice is almost dangerous in its artificial boredom. There’s a hardness to his words that blooms fresh shame in Washington’s breast.

“Lafayette-”

“Now,” his friend interrupts, “I did not perceive the _details_ of your squabble, and perhaps if I were not so honourable I would have lingered by the door,” a pointed look, “but whatever it is, I am sure it can wait until morning. When we are all well rested, and not so- what is the word?” His eyes gleam, narrowing dangerously, “Ah, yes – not so _churlish_!”

Laurens has the good sense to look scolded.

Washington sinks back into his chair. “Dismissed, both of you.”

Lafayette steadies Laurens with a firm hand on his shoulder, and spares Washington a glance he cannot decipher in the candlelight.

*

Washington has missed this.

His boy is pliant beneath him, softened by the pull of sleep. Washington navigates the constellations mapped out on his skin with his lips, lingers over the sensitive dip of his belly. He moves gingerly to the melody of quiet, delighted breaths. His hands are always in Hamilton’s line of sight. Even though his boy did not ask, the slip of thin fingers over the back of his neck tells Washington he is grateful.

He suckles on a protruding hip, weight measured against Hamilton’s legs. He is slow and careful with his tongue as it skims over the gentle curve of his thighs. The taste of his boy’s skin is sublime, the sweet tender flesh quivering under his ministrations.

Washington glances up after a minute and Hamilton – _oh._ The boy’s arm is flung over his eyes, but Washington still catches the wet glimmer in the dim light.

“Alexander,” he shifts up the line of Hamilton’s body, careful not to loom. Washington settles on his side and guides the boy’s arm from his face. His eyes are rimmed red.

“Alexander, _tell me._ ”

And his boy is nothing if not _brave._ So brave and beautiful it fills Washington’s heart with such fervent fondness and pride. “You won’t think less of me, sir?” Barely a whisper.

Washington presses a kiss to his nose, innocent and innocuous as anything. “Nothing could make me think less of you, my boy.”

When Hamilton speaks, its in soft truncated murmurs buried into Washington’s neck. One of his restless hands settles on Washington’s chest, perfectly poised over the steady beat of his heart. He breathes in the scent of his general, the musk and damp skin. His other hand curves into Washington’s hip. And he tells him, tells him about the colours between his thighs, tells him about how he shut his eyes tightly as he could and thought of Washington’s hands and his face and his rare unabashed smile saved for Hamilton alone _,_ tells him about how he shivered against the cold concrete and found reprieve in his dreams.

Washington listens, quells the fury stuttering in his chest and relaxes his body. It may be the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Washington listens and replaces an ugly touch with his own tenderness, replaces foul whispers with warm reassurances. _I belong to you my boy,_ he says with every kiss as he yields to Hamilton. _I belong to you._

*

When Lafayette finally finds him, Hamilton’s slumped against the tree, legs spread out in front of him. He’s watching the sun rise sluggishly, watches as the dawn yields to fragments of golden light.

He sits by him wordlessly, crossing his own legs beneath him. Lafayette thinks of his dear general and his dear Laurens and can’t help but wonder.

After the sun is well into the sky, Hamilton glances over at him. “Thank you.”

He smiles.


End file.
